


Midnight In Canada

by thatoldbroad



Series: Charmie'ing [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 10:37:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatoldbroad/pseuds/thatoldbroad
Summary: Aggravated by the sight of Timmy's cock clearly outlined through those crotch-tight, gray pants, Armie finally satisfies a long festering itch.For etal and isitandwonder, for your patience while Urdle 43 gets his act together to deliver your goods.





	Midnight In Canada

**Author's Note:**

  * For [etal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etal/gifts), [isitandwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/gifts).



But for the shaft of light that filters through a slight part in the curtains, the room is dark and it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust to the sight of him lying in the middle of the bed, partially on his belly and partially covered by a thin sheet, as you had instructed. Obedient to the core, even in sleep.

Want flares up like a fever. The entire day has been a tease. From the notion that you'd been harboring that you might see him again, to the endless questions from reporters on whether you would, to the imprint of him left behind on the red carpet in the screaming, besotted fans. To the ten seconds of a video clip texted to your phone: him at an interview, legs splayed casually, unthinkingly, unconsciously, and in between the clear outline of his cock through those crotch-tight pants. No underwear? Naughty boy. You were on standby then, pacing restlessly in a hallway waiting for your cue to enter a room sequestered for your own turn at an interrogation, and it took every ounce of willpower not to abscond right then and there, fuck off on your obligations and hunt him down stat. Get that cock in your mouth. Your mouth had watered.

Your mouth waters, and you waste no more time and rush to the bed. A crease forms on the mattress under your knee as you hike up onto it and your weight drags down the sheet incrementally, exposing more of him: the indents low in his spine, the tender swell of a buttock. A hint of that dark valley where you’ve dallied for hours licking him open and loose before a fuck, then hours more after to clean him out of your spunk.

Indecision wars momentarily: where should you put your mouth? At the sparse hairs under his armpit, or the flat areola of a tiny, delicate nipple, or at the nape of that swan-like neck? All of it calls for a taste. And you nearly succumb, because while that quickie in the bathroom backstage in New York had scratched an itch that had long been festering during the months and months apart, it hardly satisfied. You had craved the details of him, though none he could spare - the noises he had to stifle and the fine trembling of his body when a favored spot is attended to wetly and extensively. No opportunity for it. No time. But a trace erupts now when you exhale a breath under his arm and make the hairs there dance, and you can’t help but laugh a little, but softly so he doesn’t wake. Not yet.

Not yet, you scold yourself, when you linger too long at his nipple, which prunes invitingly from another current of warm air expelled from your parted lips and that nearly alight to close over it. Tempting, because he is so, so sensitive there, but for that very reason you resist. You settle back on your haunches and ready to pull the sheet off him, unwrap him like a present. An inch is tugged down, then two, then the rest (impatiently), and there it is: his beautiful, quiescent, soft, soft cock.

All of it fits in your mouth. From the head to the base, even his fragile, lightly-furred balls. It had taken practice, months of it, and the aid of a cock ring or your vice-like grip to keep him tender, and now the stretch is intuitive. The key is to breathe, so you do, adjusting your jaw on an inhale to accommodate him more snugly, to cram just that much more inside. And when these, his most vulnerable parts, are fully seated, you close your eyes, breathe in his musk: the power is intoxicating. You can do _anything_. Crush him, mutilate him, scorch his tidy image of you with a single, violent bite and burn it to the ground. But you won’t. Of course, you won’t.

Instead, you ravish. Little else than this and fucking him on your cock, fingers, or tongue has you so . . . entitled: all of this - _him_ \- is yours. Yours to labor on and lavish and shape inside your mouth. Mine, you think - when a testicle is pressed in the hollow of your cheek. Mine - at the shaft dragging against the roof of your mouth. Mine - at the tip when it grazes the back of your throat. Mine, mine, mine.

A gasp. He stirs. You still. He quiets, again.

He fattens inside you. The gradual inflation of his cock instantly has yours stiffening. It _aches_. You lay your hand on it, on your still-clothed crotch, and you mean to soothe, and you do, but you don’t stop there. You can’t. You unzip, release yourself, then release him from your mouth, desperate suddenly to rub your dicks together, then yours alone in the humid space between his thighs. Up, you drag it. The head leaks of pre-come. You want to mark him. To have him glistening and smelling of you. The fine lines between his ribs, the recess of his bellybutton, the cavern of his armpit - get them wet and sticky. Against his nipples, you rub the tip. Back and forth, while you pin his skinny shoulders to the bed, until his eyelashes flutter and he _arches_. Begs for it. For your mouth, finally.

You acquiesce. One juicy, perked-tight nub you suck into your mouth and grin around it smugly when his hand buries in your hair and clutches tight. You give it to him the way he likes it, flicking your tongue rapidly, then suckling the thing between the plumpest part of your lips. You are almost regretful that you made him go shirtless. Had he been clothed, there would be two identical spots now drenched in your spit, clinging to either nipple while you worked the other. He likes it: the friction of fabric against his fire-lit skin. You like it: the way it makes him look dirty and soiled. But you'd have missed the feel of him bare in your mouth.

You enter him. Just a finger. Just one. And it’s dry, but he’s already lubed. He clenches helplessly. He pines for you to touch him _there_ , where your finger glances only occasionally and the rest of the time you spend rubbing the walls of his rectum, teasing. But a nipple in your mouth and a finger at his prostate would be too easy. And you delight at his thrashing, at his white-knuckled grip on the sheets. The dig of his heels in the bed as he cants up, as if such an open display would persuade you to have mercy. It doesn’t. Not until he gives it up, that low, guttural moan. That break in his quiet panting, and you reward him with a jab, then another, _there there there_ , a second finger, then a third. And the moan ascends to a high-pitched trilling.

That’s it.

 _That_ is it.

You withdraw your fingers. Flip him onto his belly. Spread his legs. Now-now-now-now, drums a beat in your head. You slide into him at once. All of you, from the head to the base, sheathed fully inside, in his pulsing heat. And there, there it is: that fine, fine tremor.

You fuck him hard. Fast and deep. The bed rattles and the headboard bangs against the wall. He grips a bedpost, anchored there as if for dear life. And your mind superimposes the shine of handcuffs locked around that dainty wrist. You come instantly. An explosion of light erupts behind your shut eyes and you are momentarily dizzy. You collapse on top of him, and despite that you are likely smothering him breathless, he doesn’t complain. You tilt his head for a kiss: he’s exquisite. You reach under him - still hard. That won’t do.

You slide down. At eye-level with his glorious ass, you part the cheeks and delight at the sight of your come oozing out of him. In you go for a taste. It sparks a shiver. Well done.

You go at it vigorously. Now that you’re spent, you can. You wriggle your tongue, let it glide in the mess and into every crevice it can reach. Pity he’s on his stomach and pity that it’s dark, because this, even now and no matter how often you do it, never fails to make him blush, still. And you are thorough, devoted to lapping clean every drop, almost devout. He climaxes in a rush. On your tongue alone, and you’re not done. Not yet. Not even when he whines: _no, please, stop_. You don’t. Not until he’s spit-shined and hard again and you jerk him ruthlessly to a second, screaming orgasm.

“That was nice,” you say after, spooned behind him. He laughs like you’ve said the funniest thing. You plant a chaste kiss on his cheek, and meanwhile your prick grows a renewed interest in the heat of his skin. “Ready for more?”

**Author's Note:**

> [The evidence.](https://twitter.com/THR/status/1038110066883276800)


End file.
